


Denim

by Twisted_Mind



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, M/M, Ministry of Magic, Semi-Public Sex, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the 6th day of Christmas I give you . . . Draco plotting, and Harry reaping the benefits</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostxWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostxWriter/gifts).



> Originally posted Dec 19th 2012 at HP Fandom as a Christmas gift. Edited upon re-posting here. 
> 
> Disclaimer: None of this ever happened, the boys below don't belong to me, and I make no money off of this. But all three of those things are on my Christmas list.

“Harry, please? For me?” Draco half-begged, utterly exasperated.   
  
He wasn’t the only one.   
  
“Draco, for the last time, I hate denim, alright? I’m home, I want to be comfortable, and I like my slacks. Now _drop it_.” Harry’s tone was final.   
  
“But Harry—denims are so versatile! You can dress them up so that they’re semi-formal, but they’re casual too. And you’d look so much better in them than in those shapeless sacks—I mean _slacks,_ ” Draco pushed, making a moue of distaste at the offending garment.   
  
“Draco, I said drop it. Now I’m saying shut it, or I’ll be forced to gag you,” Harry snarled, stomping away.   
  
Draco may have lapsed into silence, but this argument was far from over. No; dropping it now merely provided him time to come up with a different—and more persuasive—plan of attack. Because one way or another, those horrid slacks of Harry’s had to go.   
  
_Merlin curse whoever forgot to imbue that man with some fucking fashion sense._   
  


***

  
  
Harry had agreed to go with Draco to the Ministry’s Christmas Ball only after exacting the promise that the blond would make it worth his while. Even if he technically worked there, that didn’t mean that he’d actually wanted to go their functions; _The Prophet_ had only recently quit publishing daily speculation about him, and Harry was more inclined to enjoy his new-found privacy than to test it. Of course, that went without adding his lover to the equation.   
  
Draco had—to no one’s great surprise—entered into Wizarding politics. What had come as something of a shock to most was just how good he was at it—and the fact that he was pushing for real, positive reform for Wizarding society. As such, events like the Christmas Ball were opportunities for schmoozing that he was incapable of passing up. Harry had, therefore, been stuffed into dress robes and dragged along amidst his (multiple) protests.   
  
Harry was skulking in the corner, nursing a drink and hoping that he would be able to make it out by the end of the night without having run into the press. He was muttering darkly about the various ways he was going to make his lover pay for forcing him into attendance when someone sidled up next to him.   
  
“Hey there, Harry. Don’t have too much fun now, you’ll get a reputation as a party animal,” Hermione’s dry tone cut through his musings.   
  
“’Mione!” Harry exclaimed softly before wrapping his boss and long-time friend in a quick hug.   
  
“Harry, if you hate being here so much, why did you come?” she asked, a touch of exasperation colouring her tone.   
  
Harry pulled a face. “My lover is a political beast,” he answered darkly. “Otherwise I’d be home—you know that. I’m not like you and Draco,” he teased, “I don’t have to mingle and rub elbows with the higher ups. It’s one of the benefits of being a grunt.”   
  
Hermione mock-glared at him. “Is that any way to talk about your job to the Head of the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures?” she asked haughtily.   
  
Harry poked her in the side. “Hey now, don’t pull that shite with me. You know I love my job—being a field grunt gets me out of the Ministry, and I get to work with the creatures. Which, by the way, is infinitely preferable to working with _people_.” Hermione snickered. “Speaking of creatures, how’re the kids?” he inquired.   
  
“They’re really good, Harry, thanks for asking,” Hermione replied, not bothering to contradict Harry’s statement that her children were animals.   
  
“So, who’s babysitting tonight?” Harry asked, a touch absent-mindedly.   
  
She grinned. “Their dad,” she answered sweetly.   
  
Harry looked at her in half-feigned horror. “You left Ron—the big, tough, war-hero Auror—to manage Rose and Hugo _alone_?” Hermione nodded, a wicked grin on her face. “They’re going to eat him alive!” Harry cried.   
  
“I know!” she responded with obvious relish.   
  
“You’re evil, you know,” Harry muttered. Hermione merely kissed him on the cheek.   
  
“Now, now, Hermione—I know that he’s devastatingly handsome when convinced to dress properly, but you keep your lips off my wizard,” Draco said lightly, reappearing from his mingling. Hermione merely kissed his cheek too, before vanishing into the crowd.   
  
Draco took Harry’s hand, murmuring, “Let’s get some air.” Harry, for his part, was content to let his lover lead him away from the party. He was, however, somewhat confused by the destination they arrived at.   
  
“Uh, Draco? You do realize that this is the cloak closet, right?” he muttered bemusedly.   
  
“Oh, yes. Don’t worry, Harry—I brought us to exactly where you want to be,” Draco murmured quietly, beginning to undo the row of tiny pearl buttons that ran from his jaw to his ankles. “Are you going to give me a hand? We might be here all night, otherwise,” Draco drawled, quirking an eyebrow. His challenge broke Harry from his daze. Harry knelt, and his nimble Seeker’s fingers began slipping the pearls through the gold brocade. He’d learned his lesson early on about trying to use magic or—Merlin forbid—just tearing the buttons off; apparently it was standard procedure for Malfoys to enchant their garment buttons against such things.   
  
After a dozen buttons were undone, Harry realized that the blond’s attire was a little strange. For one thing, Draco didn’t normally wear robes that were quite so old-fashioned or ostentatious. For another, he was wearing ankle boots. _Heeled_ ankle boots. Harry cast an inquiring gaze upwards at his lover’s face. Draco merely shrugged and replied, “They garner attention.”   
  
After another dozen pearl buttons had been slipped from their holes, Harry realized that Draco’s legs were bare; he cupped a calf and began kneading it with one hand, the other still working away at the buttons. _God, his legs are perfect,_ Harry thought, a little dazed, as two equally perfect knees came into view.   
  
Their hands met at Draco’s thighs, all the buttons finally undone. Harry caught his breath at what his lover had been wearing underneath. Draco slipped the golden robes from his shoulders before turning around to hang them up, giving Harry a million-Galleon view of his arse.   
  
His round, perfect arse in a denim miniskirt.   
  
Draco turned and leaned casually against a small table in the cloak room. Harry stood, stripping away his robes, his eyes drinking in the sight before him. Draco’s top was a fitted black button-down shirt that highlighted his broad chest and narrow waist. That shirt alone would have been enough to make Harry feel handsy, but paired with the skirt . . .   
  
The denim looked as though it had been painted on, and Draco’s long legs looked like they went on for miles before ending in those heeled black ankle boots. He looked fucking edible, and Harry was suddenly starving. As the dark-haired man was debating whether or not to Apparate them both back home, the decision was made for him when Draco suddenly hopped up onto the table, and spread his legs, giving Harry a perfect view up that damnable skirt. A view that, not-so-coincidentally, told Harry that the blond had forgone wearing unders.   
  
Harry snapped.   
  
Rushing forward, he used a wandless charm to rip the skirt open while kissing the blond ferociously. He sucked up a dark love-bite on Draco’s neck as he cast the necessary preparation charms—and Draco gasped as he suddenly felt himself slick and dripping, and achingly empty. Harry, in his lust, had cast the spells a little forcefully.   
  
Draco couldn’t find it in him to complain, however, when he felt Harry slide into him in one hard push. Grasping the edges of the table and wrapping his legs around the brunet, Draco tried to catch his breath after being breached so suddenly. He moaned when he felt the linen of Harry’s trousers brush against his arse—his lover had been so frantic to get inside him that he hadn’t bothered removing his clothing.   
  
As the Saviour’s thrusts settled into a demanding rhythm, Draco tried to wrap his arms around him. Harry, however, had other ideas, and clamped his hands down on Draco’s, so the blond was forced to continue to grasp the table’s edge as Harry pounded him. Draco whined when he realized he wouldn’t be able to touch himself this way.   
  
Harry chuckled darkly. “Oh, no you don’t,” he hissed breathlessly. “If you want to be a conniving little tosspot then you can come on my cock, or not at all.”   
  
Draco moaned and arched his back—causing Harry to hit that amazing little nub inside him. And—as usual—once Harry found his prostate, he banged away mercilessly, and Draco lost control of his mouth.   
  
“Ah! Harry, harder!” Draco’s legs drew the other man into him. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t you _dare_ fucking stop now . . .” he muttered as Harry’s thrusts grew shorter, sharper.   
  
“You love it when I fuck you like this, don’t you?” Harry whispered before licking at Draco’s neck.   
  
“Yes, yes! Love being fucked—right there, _right there!_  . . . C’mon, give it to me, make me come,” Draco whined. “So close, Harry! Make me come!”   
  
And then, using some kind of mind-blowing secret magic, Harry shifted his hips, and Draco was coming with a drawn-out moan issuing from his throat. When he came back down, he was resting against the wall at his back, and Harry was breathing heavily against his chest.   
  
“So,” the blond murmured hazily, “Have you changed your mind about denim?”   
  
Harry laughed brightly. “Yeah, I think I might kinda like it now.”   
  
“So you’ll wear it?”   
  
“Not a chance. But you’re welcome to keep on trying to convince me.”   
  
  
  
  



End file.
